Why Nova Scotia?

The case for Nova Scotia is a case for something I rarely do: depth over breadth, steeping yourself in a place that might seem sleepy at first, living like a local instead of speedrunning the headline attractions, and realizing you've built a connection worth returning to.

For those unfamiliar, this tucked away peninsula is overflowing with natural and cultural wonders. Cape Breton possesses highland sea cliffs, golf courses, and fortresses reminiscent of Scotland, Nova Scotia's namesake. The province's dramatic coastlines, historic lighthouses, and exceptional seafood epitomize the maritime charm found on both sides of the North Atlantic. On the South Shore, magnificent beaches like Carter's, Hirtle's, and Risser's call to the rugged beauty found on the Pacific coast and in New Zealand (especially Otago and Akaroa). Most underappreciated is Mahone Bay, whose gorgeous, wooded archipelagos mirror Stockholm in the summertime.

So why isn't Nova Scotia at the top of everyone's bucket list? For starters, it's difficult to access, even compared to regional rivals like Maine. Unless you live in Portland or New Brunswick, a weekend trip is logistically complex and taxing, leaving very little time to appreciate everything the province has to offer. And when people do go, they often bounce around the well-known sights and rarely explore hidden gems that showcase the soul of Nova Scotia. In addition to hitting the highlights, I recommend travelers immerse themselves in the South Shore, enjoying the summer as locals do: indulging in boat adventures, beach days, Lunenburg wandering, and lobster boils at Betty's.

I have something to get off my chest: I, Cole Mader, am as biased as it gets. That shipwreck I keep flaunting occurred in a place called Mader's Cove, and I've been going up every year since I was born. That lighthouse I mentioned, Westhaver's, is named after my great grandmother's family, and is tattooed on the legs of my father, brother, and myself. Growing up in New York City, we counted down the days until we could escape the swampy Manhattan summers, fleeing 14 hours north to spend all our waking hours outdoors and on the water with our cousins and grandparents. After long days of play, nothing in the world could compete with our Grandpa's seared scallops, clam chowder, hodge podge, fish cakes, and steamed mussels. While Nova Scotia seafood is remarkable, you haven't truly lived until you've devoured a slice of coconut cream pie from Jo-Ann's (the best in the world) with a side of grape nut ice cream.

My favorite place in Nova Scotia wasn't exactly a place. It was our ancient wooden picnic boat, the Pochahontas. My dad frequently took us boys out on 24-hour island expeditions, spending the day living out a more amicable version of Lord of the Flies. Under the blazing summer sun, we would fish, do jumps off the boat, and swim ashore to explore. My dad taught us everything needed to prepare and ignite a fire, and some of what is needed for fire safety. Most of our calories came from hot dogs, burgers, and beans roasted over campfires of our own creation.

One time, however, we forgot all the meat at the house. Rather than living off the rusted chef Boyardee and expired jiffy pop stowed away in the bowels of the Pocahontas, we improvised. While my dad read nonfiction on the boat, we waded into the coastal waters, barbecue skewers raised and ready to strike. Our prey? The local crabs that populate every island in the bay. We ended up roasting at least ten over the fire that day. We felt like Bear Grylls, but better: somehow none of us contracted much-deserved food poisoning.

In addition to the shore, we would also explore inland. For some islands, this meant hiking through primordial woodlands untouched by mankind; on less untouched islands, we studied various settlements, some inhabited and others long abandoned. At night we marveled at the bioluminescent algae and stargazed in sleeping bags on the aft deck. I've been to five continents and have yet to see more breathtaking stars than I do from the waters of Mahone Bay. In August, meteor showers are so common that I regularly see over a dozen shooting stars in a night.

Despite all these escapades with my brother and cousins, our parents claimed we had too much time on our hands. When they discovered that high schoolers ran a sailing school out of the local marina for only $15-a-day per kid, they jumped on the opportunity. Their true motive? To free them from their parental responsibilities to pursue a higher calling: splitting their time between the porch and the boat, drinking Clamato bloody Caesar's and chain-smoking Marlborough golds (without being berated by health-conscious ten-year-olds).

Although a tremendous privilege in hindsight, we initially resisted being forced to serve a rigid nine-to-five sentence tying knots, rigging and derigging, hauling boats in and out of the water, and playing sharks and minnows on the lawn. This draconian injustice was outweighed ten times over by our new superpower, however. We learned how to transform the wind's energy into movement, taking us wherever we wanted to go. Suddenly we didn't rely on adults, or even on finite resources, to explore our beloved Mahone bay. My young heart fell in love with sailing just as it had with Nova Scotia. Today, I'm part of a non-profit called Sail Chicago that helps reduce the socioeconomic barriers to learning sailing and getting out on the water. If you have children, enroll them in Lunenburg Yacht Club's sailing school, even if just for a week or two. You won't regret it.

Beyond the house and the sea we also spent significant time in the town of Mahone Bay, delighting in its weekly flea market and colorful shops. Mader's Wharf, which now houses the Mug & Anchor Pub, used to be a distant relative's chandlery, serving the sailing ships that harbored in the bay. We also frequented the hilly streets of Lunenburg. This charming fishing town is a UNESCO heritage site, characterized by colorful 18^th and 19^th century homes and a historic harbor that once berthed the Bluenose, and now houses the Bluenose II. When Pokémon Go came out, it also was the closest place with good gyms (Mahone Bay only had one).

My appreciation of Mahone Bay has grown as I have, even at times when I've grown into recklessness, and the Bay has grown into almost drowning me – specifically in a shipwreck when I was 18. That summer, my Aunt's boyfriend bought a sailboat at a yard sale, and had left it in the water after returning to the States. For the first time ever, I had unsupervised access to a sailboat. I was thrilled. The boat was last used in the seventies, twenty feet long, and made of thick, heavy fiberglass. It was meant to be sailed by a minimum of two and up to six people. Naturally, I decided to sail it for the first time solo, on a day with 25 mph winds.

As soon as I caught a gust, I was in heaven. With only one passenger and a herculean breeze, I was zooming through the bay, soaking up the sun and grooving to This Must Be the Place and Island in the Sun blasting from my iPhone 5 speaker in my lifejacket front pocket. As the wind strengthened so did my cockiness, trying to test how fast I could go and threading the needle between heeling over and capsizing. I successfully rode the razor's edge, letting the sail out at the last second to slow down and recover the boat each time I came close to tipping over. Sailing school had clearly paid off … until it didn't.

I was racing out past Westhaver's Light, heeling over with a thirty-degree angle between the sail and the water, flirting with a wet awakening. As I felt us tipping over, I instinctively motioned to let out the sail, depowering and leveling the boat. Except the sail didn't budge. The line snagged in the fifty-year-old cleat. Instead of stabilizing, we continued accelerating, and in an instant reached a literal tipping point: water started pouring over the leeward side and engulfed the mainsail, now at a zero-degree angle with the ocean. Simultaneously, the windward side I was sitting on rapidly turned up and over. Gravity did its thing and I faceplanted into the water above the submerged sail. In three seconds, I had gone from channeling euphoric speed and power to bobbing up and down in the sobering north Atlantic waters, along with my ride home, which was perfectly upside down. On the bright side, neither of us were sinking – thanks to my lifejacket and the boat's air compartments that were miraculously still sealed. This was not my first capsizing, and I knew what to do: grab the keel and pull to right-size the craft. Unfortunately, this evil boat had a retractable centerboard, which folded into the hull and was irretrievable despite my efforts.

I climbed up and sat atop the overturned hull, strategizing how I could possibly get myself, let alone this sailboat, to shore – without drowning and/or making the local news. Many excruciating minutes passed before I saw another vessel: a lobster boat trudging along, with a dark green hull and bright white deck. Thankfully they noticed the galactic moron sitting atop his little white island and came my way. “Need a lil' help, eh? Come on now get 'urself up here mista'” said a scruffy, weathered man in a thick South Shore drawl. I thanked him and his buddy, embarking with my bowline in hand. We slowly made our way to the nearest island with the sailboat in tow, still upside down. After the shock wore off, I remembered my phone. It miraculously survived. I called my dad, who was frustratingly nonchalant about the whole thing. He would head to the Pocahontas after he finished lunch and rendezvous with us. As we anchored in the cove of an uninhabited island, my savior finally introduced himself, by the name of Weasel. I do not remember the other guy's name. I had a feeling my life was in good hands.

When my dad arrived, he tied up boat to boat, thanked the lobstermen for saving me, offered them rum, and ordered me not to return until the sailboat was upright. Using some well-placed ropes, I righted it, but the water it had taken on kept it submerged. I swam to the island, tugging a thousand pounds of boat and water. After an hour of bailing and fixing the rigging, I sailed back to the lobster boats, victorious. To celebrate, I joined in on the drinking. At one point, Weasel revealed that he had been in and out of jail three times, charged with smuggling duty-free cigarettes out of First Nation territory in trash bags. My dad asked if he ever considered that buying cigarettes legally might cost him less in the long run. In response, Weasel asked if he would consider becoming his lawyer (my dad is not a lawyer). Next thing I knew, we were taking them out to dinner at the Mug and Anchor. Weasel's act of kindness that day epitomizes the spirit of Nova Scotians: rough around the edges at times, but good-hearted and unhesitant to support one another (unless 'one another' includes the cigarette tax enforcer).

When Covid sent me home freshman year of college, my Dad and I got sick of our tiny Manhattan apartment and drove up north. Once there, we quarantined on-property for two weeks straight under RCMP supervision, enjoying the most beautiful prison since sailing camp. Once we were allowed to leave, I spent my time on winding roads atop seaside cliffs, learning how to drive and how to operate a stick shift as I banged over gaping potholes. A while later, my Dad met his now girlfriend, Daniel, who has since opened the Kitch 'Inn, a charming bed and breakfast, housing the best restaurant in town, Betty's at the Kitch. Their mouthwatering wood-fired pizzas, kickass cocktails, and weekly lobster boils have earned them notoriety, regularly attracting some of the most interesting, lively, and welcoming patrons you'll encounter on the South Shore. You'd be hard pressed to find someone who disagrees that Mahone Bay is a lot more fun since Daniel came to town.

As I've gotten older, one of my greatest joys has become bringing loved ones up to experience Nova Scotia for the first time. My girlfriend has visited several times now, soaking up the island hopping, aquatic overnights, coastal drives, Bay of Fundy vineyards, dinners at Betty's, and dramatic South Shore beaches. I recently hosted some of my high school and college buddies for the first time. Our arrival was rough. Driving into Mahone Bay from the airport at 2am, we stumbled upon a boat engulfed in flames. For some reason, it took 30 minutes of convoluted triangulation to help the Mounties locate it over the phone. The next day, with our civic duties out of the way, we took to the water. They delighted in the crisp taste of Alexander Keith (consumed by the dozen), and dabbled in what can only be described as well-intentioned swashbuckling (we don't speak of the Mahone Bay Government Wharf incident of '24). Despite all my efforts, my friends left loving Nova Scotia, and we're actively scheduling our next trip.

When it comes to catalyzing trips up north, I don't want to stop at my loved ones. I think anyone with a love for coastal beauty, maritime culture and cuisine, and escaping into nature and history, would love Nova Scotia – and they shouldn't pass over the South Shore. I understand why Nova Scotia is overlooked. It's in a far-flung corner of the continent, too far for most people to do as a weekend trip, and perhaps not foreign enough for some to consider dedicating an entire week. If you take to living like a local, however, you will find yourself falling in love with Canada's Ocean Playground.

To help you have a manifesto-worthy experience too, I've prepared the following itinerary: